


Randy Candy

by innie



Category: Enlisted (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: Jill catches feelings during 1x11 "The General Inspection."
Relationships: Jill Perez/Randy Hill
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Randy Candy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [useyourtelescope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/useyourtelescope/gifts).



> I forgot until I read your letter how much I enjoyed this show, so thank you for getting me to rewatch! The title of the fic is from the episode itself.
> 
> My invaluable beta htbthomas kicked ass on this and should be praised for days.

"Well, sometimes," Private Hill says earnestly, "you feel like a nut. And other times, you don't." I think, from the way he's eyeing me, he's trying to figure out if I've understood him. It's a misquoted _commercial jingle_ , not the nuclear football, so yes, I think I've cracked his code. "Ma'am," he tacks on apologetically. 

He looks like he's about to salute, here in aisle seven of the supermarket, so I turn on my heel before he can get his arm up, and consider the shelves full of chocolate once more. I can't believe my not having a sweet tooth is finally biting me in the ass after years of getting me out of cravings that would have packed on the pounds. I've never needed sweets, so all of these labels promising caramel and coconut and high-fructose corn syrup are as unintelligible to me as if they were written in cuneiform. What the hell is _nougat_? Gross. Give me pickled jalapeños every time — now that's a real snack.

Pickled jalapeños, unfortunately, are not included in General Murray's rider. Hopefully he'll still be impressed enough with the filled fridge to give me some face time.

Private Hill, aside from being uncertain how to speak with me — I think he doesn't get how to speak to someone he has to salute whom he doesn't consider a relative, and _what_ was up with his calling Command Sergeant Major "Uncle Sergeant Major Cody"? — is actually great at this. He digs through all of the blue-wrapped bars to find the one red wrapper buried in the pile. He contemplates with great purpose, considering the difference between white chocolate with dark chocolate stripes and dark chocolate with white chocolate swirls. He knows all the varieties Gloria Esteflan comes in and does a little dance when he sees the tres leches flavor. He finds the New York Cheddar flavor Kettle chips, scorning the ridged Cheddar and Sour Cream bag I try to toss in. "Getting Grandpa General Murray a no-name brand? I don't think so," he says sternly. And it doesn't end in the supermarket. That trick with inhaling Sketchy Van Guy's jerky (wow, that sounds _filthy_ ) is seriously impressive, like he's got a sommelier's nose.

Private Hill is good company.

Private Hill is cute company.

I mean. I'm just saying.

*

I'm eating my way into a sugar coma — I can't believe no one ever told me how _fun_ chocolate is — and mourning my lost chance for promotion when Private Hill busts into my Secret Gorging Room. He doesn't blink, but he does let loose a wail of privation that is oddly relatable. Private Hill, I feel sure, has known some disappointments.

I don't want to be one of them. 

I don't get a chance to think too much about that little revelation because he busts out the news that General Murray's on his way on the double and here I am, every bit of my uniform askew on my body that's bloated like I'm ending my first trimester. And then he takes charge and it is seriously hot. I don't think that's just the adrenaline spiking through my bloodstream. He's rational, measured, and determined to be his best, and when the task at hand is making _me_ look _my_ best, it's hard not to be psyched by his work ethic.

Or the adorable way he plays along when I, clearly hopped up on sodium and MSG and whatever else is in all those snacks that make them taste so good, start putting on that stupid _Doctor Who_ accent to workshop marketing ideas for a brand of chocolate-covered toffees that _I just made up_. What even is my life?

*

I might have been a little hasty in asking that before. _Now_ , when Private Hill has made me chug a gallon and a half of water and is loitering outside the latrine to make sure I'm eliminating as much of the sugar as possible from my system — not to mention murmuring encouragement while I pee like I'm Austin Powers — _now_ is probably the time to ask where it had all gone so horribly wrong.

I do have to hand it to him, though. I feel more clear-headed than I thought was possible, and I scrub up and am inspection-ready in no time flat. I return to the Gorging Room to pick him up and find he's put the whole thing back to rights; the fridge looks as full as it did before I chowed down. And Private Hill looks brushed and pressed and shined, just as he did this morning. His thick hair looks soft and his eyes don't need sunlight to sparkle.

When he turns back to the ammo locker for last-minute reinforcements to keep on hand in case the general gets peckish, I notice his butt looks like I could bounce a quarter off it.

What an interesting theory.

*

Private Hill finds me after General Murray leaves and offers to bring the leftovers of our booty — why he has to use that word I do not know — to the mess hall. Anita Baker is still singing, in my head if nowhere else, and I've got my cap off and am pulling my hair out of the too-tight bun it's been in for the last few hours. I don't know why I keep calling him Private Hill when I obviously know his name well enough to be naming imaginary confectionery after him.

It's quiet, everyone having scattered to enjoy basking in the general's commendation, and Randy steps a little closer. He takes a big unashamed sniff and smiles. "Your hair smells like strawberries," he says. That is what my conditioner says on the bottle, so his nose is batting a thousand. And he's even cuter when he smiles.

"Thank you again for your help today, Private Hill," I say sharply, because I am in no way cuter when I smile and I outrank him and this is a bad idea.

"Oh," he says, losing that smile, and it's like the electricity was cut, all the light in his face just flicked off. I want that happy private — that _also_ sounds seriously filthy, I am on such a roll — back; I couldn't want him more if he were chocolate-covered.

Screw it. I push him back against the wall. "You were invaluable today," I tell him, pressing up against him.

"I live to serve, Ma'am," he says, and I surge up to kiss his returning smile.


End file.
